


Change my ways

by Captain_of_the_sass



Series: Tumblr oneshots [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Angst, M/M, like pretty much all angst, whoops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-16
Updated: 2015-10-16
Packaged: 2018-04-26 15:56:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5010817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Captain_of_the_sass/pseuds/Captain_of_the_sass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The road to recovery is long and hard.<br/>Honestly, Bucky would be happy if he could just make it to the starting line.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Change my ways

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr prompt fill for "Steve/Bucky inspired by Mumford & sons The Cave" find me at tonybuckys if you'd like to make a request or check out my other drabbles.  
> I have no beta so please feel free to let me know if you find any mistakes!

He busies himself with counting the books on each of the bookcases. The titles all blur together into a muddled mess but he finds the repetitive act of cataloging them soothing, lets it ground him. He does it over and over again until he knows how many books on each shelf of each of the three bookcases.

It’s been eleven days since he moved into the tower. One month, 9 days, and 7 hours since he’d stopped running, and Bucky had yet to leave the floor Tony Stark had furnished for him. Steve came by often, nearly every three hours on the dot. Bucky could always hear him coming, hear his footsteps down the hall as clearly as he could hear his own breathing. It was awful, the fact that he dreaded hearing those footsteps. He lived in fear of the inescapable tense silences and the look in Steve’s eyes when in inevitably brought up some childhood memory Bucky couldn’t recall. He started to hate Steve Rogers, just a little, and hated himself for hating him.

When Bucky heard Steve approaching he fought the instinct to lock the door and instead positioned himself on the couch, scarcely breathing until he heard Steve’s knock. It was weak and tentative and still it shattered the silence like a gunshot. Bucky mechanically stood and went to open the door, metal hand firmly tucked into the pocket of his hoodie.

“Steve,” he greeted, and even Bucky could hear how dispassionate his own voice sounded. Steve smiled anyway, but his eyes were tight.

“Hey Buck,” he answered, “I came to see if you wanted anything to eat; we were talking about ordering some takeout.” Bucky fought the urge to wince. He didn’t want that name anymore; recoiled at the idea of it. He wasn’t _him_ anymore. Wasn’t Steve’s Bucky, but not The Soldier either. His head was a mess of memories, the past irreversibly woven with his life as a killer. Past memories were better. They were warmer, sweeter. Flashes of familiar tastes, smells, and touches that he clung to. The sight of blue eyes, a smile, and a warm hand holding his. His memories of the past brought him joy while he slept, and left him bitter when he woke.

Bucky shook his head, frowning at the ache deep in his temples as he recalled Steve’s question.

“Not hungry.”

Steve’s face fell ever so slightly, and Bucky could tell he was disappointed but not particularly surprised. “Well if you need anything…” he began, and Bucky managed something like a smile.

“I know where you’ll be.”

Steve was late visiting the next day and when he finally showed there were deep yellowish-purple bruises littering his skin, along with a gash across his forehead that had already begun to scab over. Still, Bucky found himself furious, pacing the floor in violent strides. Somehow, even when he hated Steve, a part of Bucky loved him too.

“I should be out there with you.” He growled, hands clenching and unclenching. Every instinct was telling him that he belonged at Steve’s side. He should have been there to watch his back and instead he’d been sitting around wallowing in self-pity.

Steve was sitting on the couch watching Bucky wear a path in the carpet. He looked exhausted, which only made Bucky feel worse. “You know I can’t let you into the field yet…”

“Why?” Bucky whirled on him, eyes blazing, “because I’m _dangerous_? You can say it, Steve; you don't trust me.”

“I didn’t say that.” Steve ground out, furious now.

“But you thought it.”

Steve snapped to his feet, getting in Bucky’s face. “ _Don’t_ ,” he snarled, “Don’t act like you know what I’m thinking, because you’re _wrong_.”

“Am I?” Bucky spat back, “ Bucky Bucky _Bucky_ , that’s what you call me. You want to pretend I’m him so damn bad, but I’m _not_ and you know it. And that’s what kills you, isn’t it? That you finally saved your best friend only to find out that they scooped him out and shoved a _monster_ back in." Steve opened his mouth to protest and Bucky yanked his metal arm out from his pocket and jabbed one glimmering finger smack in the center of Steve’s chest, “No, you shut up. It’s time for you to get it through your thick skull, Stevie, that idiot boy from Brooklyn’s not coming back. Even if I had all my memories, you think I could go back to being exactly who I was before? After all the _shit_ I’ve done? _Christ_.” Bucky backed away, holding his metal hand close to his chest and running his other hand through his hair, feeling the way it trembled. “Why couldn’t you just let me go?” he whispered, and Steve broke.

His voice was so quiet that even Bucky strained to hear it as Steve murmured, “Because I love you.” like it was some universal truth, something unquestionable. There was a flash- a glimmer of memory that flickered in Bucky’s mind like an old film reel. The press of warm lips. The feel of soft blond hair tucked beneath his chin, and a reverent whisper in his ear that echoed in his head.

 _I love you, Bucky_.

And when Bucky spoke his words were superimposed over the words of his memory, far more broken than the cocksure tone he’d used all those years ago, sounding completely resigned as the last of the fight drained out of him.

“ _I know you do, punk_.”

Steve laughed, but his eyes blinked back tears.

The next time Steve showed up at the door Bucky wordlessly opened it before he had a chance to knock. They spent hours in silence, Steve sketching and Bucky finally reading one of the books he’d spent so long cataloging. It was still hard for him to fumble through past and present, to reconcile all the fractured pieces of himself. But he felt lighter, somehow, if only a little bit.

Slowly, so slow Bucky didn’t even notice it happening, they began to talk. Just small conversations, mostly Steve rambling while Bucky listened. He talked about Stark’s latest mishap in the lab, Clint’s nerf dart antics, the strange meal Bruce had cooked that was so spicy Steve had jumped and gulped water straight from the tap. And, slowly, Bucky began to laugh again. When he finally ventured out of his room for the first time he found Steve sitting at the table in the communal kitchen, talking animatedly to a man with floppy brown hair and glasses. When they noticed him standing in the doorway Steve’s grin widened into a blinding smile, and Bucky smiled back almost imperceptibly.

It wasn’t much.

But it was a start.


End file.
